The clock struck once. "Under-Achiever Stooge, I am the muse that was foretold," a woman said. "I am the Muse of Drafts Past."
Stooge awoke to a bright light, opened his eyes and beheld the first spirit foretold. "Muse, tell me, why have you come? I was just settling down for a long winter's nap."
"There will be plenty of time for napping later. Now we must go. Time is of the essence."
He rose out of bed and approached the spirit.
"Take the hem of my robe," she said, "and I will guide you to a Novel many drafts ago…"
As Stooge took her hem, the world fell out from beneath him and he was transported to a small computer room, where sat a little boy. "Why—that's me as a little boy!" he said. "Little boy, what are you writing?" Stooge looked over his shoulder and beheld a manuscript full of so many errors that he cringed away in horror. "Spirit, why did you have to show me this depravity?"
"You were happy then," said the spirit. "You were happy writing until you discovered the snares of over-editing."
Tears formed in Stooge's eyes as he spied his old favorite characters on the screen. "That's Annabelle! And look! There are all the schoolboys. Oh, what fun I had in those days."
"Something you would be wise to remember. Come, to another scene."